Petrilock
by TouchedBytheAngel
Summary: An OC fic that revolves around a young woman from Wales discovered by Mycroft and brought back to engage in Lestrade's team. Things change a bit, however, when Sherlock shows up on a crime scene to find not one woman, but two. And this one has a few tricks up her sleeve. This is no Molly Hooper.
1. Chapter 1

** Chapter One: Always Like That**

**Disclaimer: No, seriously folks…I don't own BBC. **

Watson walked through the doors of the Lab. Inside were microscopes, plant samples, specimens, needles and all sort of other oddments. But what really caught his attention was the man staring into one of the specimen liquids as if to find the meaning of life within.

"Not much like my day."John said, looking around.

The strange man looked up. Tall, tousled black hair, pale sea-green eyes, fair skin and a black suit, he looked professionally bored. Like he was looking down at an ant bed and wondering why they did half the tiresome things they did.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He said. He had a clear, somewhat deep voice; he sounded as bored as he looked.

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.

"I prefer to text," he shrugged.

"Sorry," Mike answered somewhat sarcastically; "mine's in my coat."

The man rolled his eyes and looked Watson up and down. Then he resumed his work as an awkward silence took place.

Finally John broke it. "Here," he tossed him his phone. "Use this."

The man looked at him oddly. "Oh. Um, thank you."

He took the phone and began typing. After a moment of silence, he suddenly asked,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" John asked.

"Which was it: Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man repeated.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-"

He was cut off by a woman with mousey brown hair and a white lab coat coming in and the man saying pleasantly, "Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?"

The woman looked slightly embarrassed, and John got the feeling that she wasn't exactly a strong willed kind of girl. "It…it wasn't working for me." She tried with a weak smile.

"Really? I thought it was an improvement. Your mouth's too…small now." The man said matter-of-factly.

"Okay." She said quietly, as she went out.

The man took a sip of coffee and turned towards John. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Pardon?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end…potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

"You told him about me?" John asked in confusion.

"Not a word." Mike answered with a shrug.

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" John was really confused now.

"I did." The man responded with a smile. "I told Mike here this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for, and here you are, just after lunch with an old friend just returned home from the war."

"Yes, how DID you know about Afghanistan?" John wondered.

But the man either didn't hear him or chose to avoid the subject. "I found us a nice little place in central London, together we should be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow at 7:00 p.m., I have to run; I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" John asked.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met, I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

"Problem?" the man asked as if he was talking to a perverse child.

John smiled, somewhat annoyed.

"I don't know a thing about you, and now we're going to look at a flat."

"I know you're a veteran recently return from Iran, you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help, possibly because you don't approve of him. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's…enough to be going on, I think."

As he went to leave, he stopped by the door and added, "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221 B Baker Street." Then he clicked his tongue like calling a horse, and ran out, leaving John staring in puzzled silence. Then he turned to Mike, who shrugged with an affable smile. "Yeah…he's always like that."


	2. Chapter Two: Duel of the Wits

**Chapter Two: Duel of the Wits**

They looked at the flat the next day as arranged. Despite his precautions Watson decided that Sherlock was not, at least, a demented psychopath desperate to draw him to a remote location where his life would be painfully extricated. After some…conversation about what could be moved where and how the rooms could be organized, Watson noticed a skull. On the mantelpiece.

"A skull?" he asked, pointing with his cane.

"Oh yes; friend of mine. Well, I say _Friend_…" Sherlock began, but Mrs. Hudson came in.

"So what do you think, Sherlock? Will this do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Depends on Watson."

Said Watson sat down in a big comfy chair and looked about. Mrs. Hudson busied herself about the room, then left and returned with a newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Handing him the paper, "I thought these'd be right up your street. Three suicides exactly the same-"

Suddenly a police siren sounded, coming closer to the flat. "Four," said Sherlock, coming to the window. "There's been a fourth."

A man with short graying hair and rather nice features came up the stairs.

"Where?" asked Sherlock excitedly.

"Brixton; last night," the man answered.

"And what's special about this one?"

"You know how they never leave notes? Well…this one did." The man explained.

Sherlock looked pleased for half a second, and then looked suspicious. "Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson," came the reply.

Sherlock sighed. "He's NOT going to work with me."

"He's not like your ASSISTANT!" The man pleaded.

"But I NEED an assistant," Sherlock shot back.

"Look, will you come or not?" Lestrade looked weary.

"Fine," grunted Sherlock. "I'll be right behind; don't like police cars."

"Thank you," the man sighed as he left.

As soon as he heard the door slam, Sherlock jumped up and down like a kid at Christmas, spun around and shouted,

"This is BRILLIANT! _Four _serial suicides and now a murder…oh it's _Christmas_!"

He turned to John. "Make yourself at home, Doctor Watson; have a cup of tea, just relax."

And he ran down the stairs.

"I'll go make you a cup of tea, if you like." Mrs. Hudson offered kindly.

"Thank you, yes." Watson replied absently, looking at a newspaper. On the front were pictures of the latest victim and the man he had seen a moment ago; apparently his name was Lestrade and he was the DI of the investigation.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." She replied.

"Coupla biscuits, if you have any." He added.

"NOT your housekeeper!" she shot back.

Suddenly Sherlock reappeared, pulling his gloves on.

"So you're a doctor then…any good?" he inquired casually.

Watson stood up, a tad bit hopefully. "VERY good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then; violent deaths and the like…had a bit of trouble, I suppose."

"Oh yes; enough for a lifetime." Watson replied stoically.

"Wanna see some more?"

Watson smiled. "Oh _God_, yes!"

They ran down the stairs, out onto the street and hailed a cab. It was dark by now, and took them ten minutes to get there.

Once at the house, Sherlock charged inside, while Watson paused to get a blue plastic safety suit on.

Once Sherlock entered the room, he saw a woman dressed in a frankly alarming shade of bright pink lying on the floor facedown…and another woman on her feet dressed in an emerald green dress with a black over jacket talking to Anderson.

"But look at the word she wrote! It's clearly German!" Anderson pointed at the scratchy letters on the floor.

Sherlock didn't speak to them, simply began investigating the body. The woman didn't look at him either.

"She's NOT German, Anderson, for God's sake you're supposed to be _GOOD_ at this sort of thing!" she said, exasperated.

"Yes, but she's from out of town, though." Sherlock spoke for the first time to her.

She looked down at him and smiled irritably. "Well at least _SOMEONE'S_ on the right track."

"He's not just somebody, though." Said John, who had by this time run up. He was looking at Sherlock.

"No?" her smile was half smirk, half grin.

"John Watson." He smiled as he shook her hand.

He paused, scanning her completely up and down. She was medium height, taller than him but a bit shorter than Sherlock, (though most people were). She had on a green denim dress that came just below her knees with a black jacket and a matching pair of black boots that came up to her knees, so you couldn't really see her legs at all. Chestnut brown hair the length of he couldn't tell because it was done up in a French twist and sprayed so that not a single strand stood out. Her features were well developed, her skin very fair and light freckles scattered across under her eyes. She wore no jewelry, perfume or any other sort of decoration, and she had a smart, business air about her that said, "I'm here to have fun, and you're not, so no tomfoolery to interrupt my cleverness."

"Oh yes, and while you're analyzing me do PLEASE tell me who your clever friend is?"

Watson started. She was watching him watch her with a frankly amused expression. But Anderson answered for him.

"That's Sherlock," he scoffed. "He comes up here to _investigate _murders and such…thinks they're fun, he does."

The woman turned and walked over to Sherlock, still on his knees. She bent down and looked him straight in the eyes, at the same time sweeping over his entire frame.

"Ah, I see. Your pupils have dilated just since you got here and I highly doubt it's because of _me_. I'm flattered, though. Tell me, which do you like better, Murders or Suicides? I personally think Murders are the more fun of the two, but then again it doesn't pay to go advertising."

"Oh no," Anderson groaned. "Not you too!"

Her clear green eyes took in everything as she turned and made direct eye contact with whomever she was speaking to. "So sorry to disappoint, but I'm afraid I'm a complicated woman. I'm sure you can make do with Sgt. Donavan."

"Oh you noticed it too? You're not too bad." Sherlock stood up and surveyed her lazily, his pale eyes flicking.

"You're too kind." And again there was the hint of smirk in that smile, and the raised eyebrows that seemed to laugh. _I know something, and you don't, _they said. And Sherlock hated it when people knew things he didn't. He'd just have to change that.

"Suicides," he fibbed. Time to test out this stranger, and he smiled as if to show he meant it.

"Ooh; _lies_. And _so early in_ the conversation," she smiled. "After all, you don't even know my name. But I'm sure you've surmised enough to go by around this point, yes?"

"Quite." He answered with a cold smile.

"Do tell."

"You might be surprised," he answered with a smirk.

_Show of, _Watson muttered inwardly.

But the woman was unfazed. "_Surprise_ me."

His eyes roved over her once more and John groaned. "Here it comes. We had a whole session in the cab." He explained to no one in particular.

"I'm going now." Anderson grumped. The woman didn't even turn to look at him as he had hoped she might. She was watching Sherlock like a cat who stalks a mouse. But Sherlock had never, ever played mouse in this game, and he wouldn't start now.

"I've noticed that you are a beautiful woman, but you wear very professional clothes and obviously have a job with the Investigating team, which tells me that you take yourself and women seriously. You're not here to make an impression; you trust that it will be made by the time you leave. Which tells me that you're very sure of yourself, and by the slight undercurrent of bemused sarcasm in your tones you don't think this lot is so top notch, do you?"

She cocked her eyes to one side and answered in a tone of polite surprise, "Oh! What do we have here? A detective who actually _knows_ what he's doing?"

"That and more than's good for him, I'm afraid." Lestrade came up to them, warning them with a look. "Since I see you're not eager to get acquainted, this-"

"Is Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I know." She was no longer smiling now, her cheerful character immediately resuming its business-like air.

"But Anderson only gave you my first name." Sherlock looked slightly puzzled.

"I read your website," was the only reply.

"So you know who he was? Why did you ask then?" John decided that this woman and Sherlock were not getting off on the entirely right foot.

"I like to hear what other people think of people. It's so interesting to see their reactions as they pour forth the criminal record or life story of whoever they've been asked about." She shrugged.

"True."

"And NOW, can we PLEASE get to the actual case?" Lestrade was starting to get annoyed with these two people who were having a duel of wits right before his eyes and he had absolutely no idea why.

"Because I'm clever…and he doesn't like it." The woman said.

"What?" John asked.

"Lestrade looks confused. He's probably wondering why I'm even taking this much time with Mr. Holmes, and I just gave the answer: he's analyzing me. Not my looks, as John was," (at this point said John blushed) "But ME. My mind, how smart I am; he has to know. Because he can't _bear _to not be in on the know, am I right?"

"Quite right;" Sherlock was cold as an iceberg now, but sarcastic. John sensed that it was high time the conversation moved on, although he guessed that if Sherlock hated the woman he'd be treating her a bit more like Anderson instead of giving her so much attention. He bent down, and began inspecting the body. The woman finally released Sherlock from her gaze and turned to see what John had uncovered.

"Asphyxiation," he announced. "No smell of alcohol on her; choked on her own vomit, I'd say."

"Excellent. Now, where is her case?" Sherlock asked.

"Case?" Lestrade was puzzled.

"Yes, there must have been a-", but he was cut off as the woman said in a lithe, quick tone,

"Case; look at her legs; there's tiny droplets of mud that have been splashed on as she pulled her case behind her."

"But how do you know she was staying overnight?" John asked.

"When I inspected her I found-" she began, only to be cut off.

"Water droplets on the back of her coat which still haven't dried." said Sherlock. Two could play this game, lady.

"But her coat collar was up while her umbrella was unused. This shows that there would be heavy winds; too heavy to use an umbrella."The woman continued, a smile puckering her mouth. Why did it keep returning? It seemed impossible for her to remain in a sophisticated frame of mind.

"And," continued Sherlock, "the only place matching all the criteria was two hours ago in Cardiff." He held up his phone showing the weather.

Lestrade and John stood staring at both the woman and Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at the lady again as if to pierce her soul. She seemed oblivious, but suddenly her eyes widened and she nearly jumped as she cried,

"Oh! I just had the most delicious idea! Best of luck Lestrade, John…Iceberg." She flashed her grin and her green eyes shone with excitement and intelligence. Just before she ran out, Sherlock stopped her by saying in the coolest of tones,

"I'm sure you've noticed this small fact but I don't even know your name."

She turned right before going out the door, and answered, "The smell of dust after rain."

Then she was gone, but they all heard her yell up the stairway as she ran down,

"Isn't this _fun?"_

John looked at Sherlock and half smiled. "Oh you two were _made_ for each other."

Sherlock glared at John as the door shut, but Watson was quick to continue. "So…what do you think her idea was?"

Sherlock stood dead still for a moment, and then he clapped his hands. "Oh, she's going to be a problem." He muttered as he raced out the door, and down the stairs.

"Sherlock, what did you say?" John yelled after him.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock called up, "The killer made one mistake, and I think that woman noticed!"

"WHAT mistake?" Lestrade hollered.

"PINK!" Sherlock answered. And then he had run out the door and into the foggy night.

"Don't mind me; I'll catch up to you." John slowly went down after him.

He walked out into the dark, and saw only Sally.

"Hi, did Sherlock just leave?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered absently. "Just took off. He does that. But I'd stay away from him if I were you."

"Why?"

"Because he's a psychopath," she answered matter-of-factly. "And psychopaths get bored."

"What about the other one, the woman?" he queried.

She shrugged. "She hasn't been here too long; moved from Liverpool to London and has been working 'ere about six months."

"Oh. Alright; well, good evening!" He said as he climbed under the yellow tape out onto the main road.

"Donavan!" someone yelled.

"Coming!" she answered. As she walked away she repeated, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter Three: Getting His Legs Back

**Chapter Three: Getting His Legs Back**

Sometime later, Sherlock heard footsteps coming upstairs from his position on the couch. Sure enough, Watson came up and while taking his coat off looked somewhat nervously out the window.

"What are you doing?" he asked in regards to Sherlock's right sleeve being rolled up and his frankly alarming breathing.

He opened his eyes. "Nicotine patch. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"Good news for breathing." Watson tried.

"Ugh; _breathin_g. Breathing's boring." Sherlock scoffed, closing his eyes.

"You asked me to come; I'm assuming it's important." John said, getting to business.

Sherlock popped his eyes open again after a pause. "Oh! Yes; can I borrow your phone?"

"My _phone_?" Watson asked in disbelief.

"Don't want to use mine; it's on the website. Always the chance it'll be recognized."

"Well why didn't you try the landline?" Watson seriously doubted how living in the same flat was going to turn out.

"I tried shouting; Mrs. Hudson didn't hear me."

"So you couldn't even be bothered to get up?" definitely a bad idea. What purpose would he serve; Sherlock's _footman_?

"I was at the other side of _London_!"

"Oh well; there's no hurry." Sherlock answered coolly.

It always confused John when telling this story afterwards how when he took out his phone he did not smash it on Sherlock's skull; but nevertheless he handed it to him; literally, he put it into Sherlock's palm.

"So is this about the case?" he asked as he moved away towards the window.

"Obviously; there's a number on the table, I need you to send a text.

"You brought me…to send a text?" Watson queried, exasperated.

"Tex, yes; the number, on my desk."

Watson sighed, and walked to the window with the phone.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"I met a friend of yours today." Watson answered coolly.

"A friend?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"An enemy." Watson corrected himself.

"Oh. Which one?"

"Said he was your arch-enemy. Do people have arch-enemies?" Watson wondered.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes." Watson answered slowly.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity," Sherlock opened his eyes. "We could have split the fee; think it through next time. Now on my desk; the number."

Watson went over to the desk and saw the number.

"Send exactly this: what happened at Lauriston gardens? I must have blacked out." Sherlock said slowly.

Watson punched in the keys, and typed in the message.

Sherlock suddenly got up, went over to the desk chair, pulled out a bright pink case and opened it.

Watson sent the message, turned, and saw the case. "But that's…that's the pink lady's case."

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock answered as if talking to a stupid child.

Watson continued to stare, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"Never said you did." Watson answered quietly.

"Why not? It's a perfectly logical assumption."

Watson shrugged. "So how did you find it?"

"By looking." He answered, matter-of-factly. "It's bright pink; would draw attention to anyone especially a man which is statistically more likely. He would've wanted to get rid of it; and it took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"So you got all that because you knew the case was pink?"

"Well it had to be pink, obviously." Sherlock looked surprised.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot." Said Sherlock in the same matter-of-fact tone.

Watson looked offended, but Sherlock added, "No, no, don't be offended, practically everyone is."

"What I want to know is that if you have her case why send a text like that?" Watson wondered.

"Because if the killer has her phone. If an ordinary person found it, he would ignore a message like that…but the killer…"

Suddenly the phone rang.

"Would panic!" Sherlock finished, slamming the lid to the case.

He got up and readied himself to leave.

"Where are you going?" Watson called after him.

"To investigate."

"Aren't you going to the police?"

"Four people are dead; there isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" John asked in some annoyance.

Sherlock looked wistfully at the mantelpiece. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"So basically I'm just filling in for your skull?"

"Relax," he shrugged. "You're doing fine."

"You could stay, and watch telly." He said, as if he had a better idea.

"You want me to come with you?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I like company, and I think better when I talk aloud. A skull just attracts attention."

Watson smiled and looked down as if thinking.

"What?"

"Sally," Watson explained. "Sally Donovan said you get off on this; that you enjoy it."

"And I said danger, and here you are." Sherlock smiled as went out the door.

John sat for a minute as if not comprehending this, then thumped his cane of the floor.

"Dammit." He muttered as he got up and followed.

They went down a few streets walking at an easy pace, until they reached a little corner shop that apparently Sherlock knew well. He hailed the waiter, Bill, and the shop owner called out to him heartily in greeting. They sat down close to a window and watched the streets as they ate and drank.

Suddenly the door handle rattled and in walked…who else but the mysterious lady from earlier. She smiled and greeted the shop owner as well, and when Watson waved she saw them sitting there. She went to they're table while awaiting her order and spoke to them.

"So how's investigation going? I found where the case had been but I'm afraid someone, "(with a significant glance towards said Detective) "got there first. Still, it's heartwarming to know that someone shares my view on things.

"I believe the correct term is Observation," Sherlock answered coolly.

"That and/or deduction." She grinned, then a bell rang up front and someone shouted, "Number twenty-one!"

She turned gleefully. "That's me!"

"Before you go, I'm glad you appreciate the concept of deduction. Not many people do." Sherlock said this a little less sarcastically then he usually talked, and she seemed to sense it.

"Well it's not the only thing I appreciate, you know." She looked thoughtful.

"No?" Sherlock was quizzical.

She smiled a little wistfully and looked at Watson and Sherlock respectively. "You have someone to work with, to talk to, to argue with. I'm afraid it's a bit lonely for me; I haven't had one close friend since I moved here."

"Well we…" Watson broke in, speaking for the first time and with a kindly light in his blue eyes. "We could be your friends."

The woman looked at him hard for a moment, but her eyes were soft as she turned to Sherlock and asked,

"And what of Mr. Holmes here? Will you be "friends"?"

"I don't have friends." He answered matter-of-factly.

"Oh for God's sake…" John muttered.

But the lady's eyes sparkled for a brief second and she grinned again. "Then I'm afraid we'll have to start out as enemies."

"Isn't the term "enemies" a bit extreme?" queried Watson.

She turned towards him briefly. "There are Enemies and Enemies. This is the latter."

"James Bond?" Watson smiled.

"Bingo." She smiled back.

"ORDER TWENTY-ONE IS HERE!" someone hollered again. "GET UP HERE OR I'LL EAT IT MYSELF!"

The lady turned and just before she ran to the counter murmured to Sherlock, "And I do _so _love a good enemy."'

Then she ran up to the counter, grabbed her food and with a parting wave to the two colleagues went out the door.

Watson remained staring after her, a smile playing around his mouth. "I think it's physically impossible for her to stop smiling for more than ten seconds." He chuckled.

Sherlock shrugged. "She's got a brain, I'll give her that."

"Anything else you'd like to add?"

"Erm…no." he flipped through his menu.

"You'd make a good team," Watson said encouragingly.

He scoffed. "I don't need a team. I've got you; what else do I need; a parade to announce my arrival?"

John just smiled slightly and settled in his chair looking around the restaurant.

Suddenly Sherlock stiffened.

"What?" John asked.

"A cabby just pulled up…now it's sitting there doing nothing."

John turned and looked.

"Don't stare." Sherlock reproved.

"YOU'RE staring," was the retort.

"Well we can't both stare," Sherlock answered as he grabbed his coat and hurried out of the restaurant.

Watson followed close behind; they chased after the cabby but it pulled away before they quite reached it.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock yelled as the car sped away, then he stood for a moment with his hands to his head.

"What now?" John panted.

Sherlock shook and nodded his head as if calculating something, and answered quickly, "This way!"

They ran together, and as they did so Sherlock yelled over the noises, "I know every street in London, if I calculate the location of the cab's arrival I can make an alternate route that will get us there first."

They ran down streets, jumped over a wall, ran along a rooftop and finally intercepted the cab by throwing themselves at it, forcing it to screech to a halt.

Sherlock threw open the door, revealing a small man with two suitcases and a very frightened expression on his face.

"Hello," he said nervously in a clearly American accent, "are you the police?"

"Yes!" Sherlock panted, holding up a badge. "Sherlock Holmes; everything alright?"

"Uh, yeah." The man responded.

Sherlock finally finished panting and smiled. "Good. Excellent. Enjoy your evening."

"Just let us know if you need anything, okay?" Watson added as the two men went off.

He caught up to Sherlock and they both stopped to catch their breath.

"Where'd you get that badge?" John asked.

"Lestrade," he answered; "I pickpocket him when he's annoying."

Sherlock saw the man talking to an _actual _police officer and turned to John.

"Got your breath back?" he grinned.

"Ready when you are."

And the two men ran as fast as their legs could carry them back to the flat.


	4. Chapter Four: Spot of Glory

**Chapter Four: Spot of Glory**

"That was ridiculous. That was…the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." Watson panted.

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock scoffed.

At which point both men burst out laughing.

"Yeah, but that…that wasn't just me." Watson finally got out.

Mrs. Hudson suddenly came in; her voice was hushed and worried.

"Sherlock! What've you done this time? The police are all upstairs!"

Sherlock gave one look at John and they both barreled up the stairs.

"Lestrade!" he growled. "WHAT do you think you're doing?"

Lestrade looked around and answered, "Drugs bust."

"I'm CLEAN!" Sherlock had his "look-at-me-do-I-look-stupid-stupid?" face on.

"You can't withhold evidence." The inspector replied coolly.

Sherlock did a half groan, half growl.

Suddenly the door opened, and the woman from the room popped her head through.

"Oi," she said, "Has anyone found the phone?"

Sherlock's eyes widened almost to pure pupil. "Oh course! How could we not notice that?"

"Notice what?" asked Anderson the Oblivious One.

"John, on the luggage there's a label; email address. Tell me what it says."

"Uh, .uk" he answered.

The woman clapped her hands and looked at Sherlock. "We've been too slow; she didn't have a laptop…"

"But she DID have a Smartphone which she did her business on!" Sherlock finished for her.

"So don't you see, don't you get it? RACHEL!" Sherlock held out his hands as if in supplication of intelligence.

Blank looks were his only reply.

He sighed. "Look at you lot; you're all so vacant, is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a NAME-"

"Then what is it?" John asked, irritated.

But the woman answered for Sherlock, "The password to her email address." She had run across the room, jumped on JOHN'S laptop and began typing.

"So we can read her email, so what?" Anderson sniffed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sent one brief glance to the woman. She looked up from her typing just long enough to give a look that said, "Give 'im what for."

Sherlock turned back to the unfortunate Anderson. "Anderson, don't talk out loud; you lower the IQ of the whole street."

"As previously stated," he said in slightly exasperated tones, "she did not have a laptop; she had her Smartphone. It's GPS enabled, which means we can do much more than read her email, we can-"

"Locate the phone!" the woman finished. "And it's almost done."

"Hey!" Watson suddenly realized what she was doing, and Lestrade, Sherlock and he crowded round her to see. "That's my laptop."

"I'm just confiscating it temporarily for the greater good of mankind." She answered absently, as if it didn't matter at all that she had just jumped onto a strange man's computer and was clicking away as the phone processed the GPS location.

"Is it really for the greater good of mankind?" John asked doubtfully.

She looked up at him, paused, and said with a shrug, "Well…currently it's a score-one for Womankind right now, but yeah. Mankind's benefitting from it too."

Sherlock actually _face-palmed_. WHO was this woman and how could she possibly know so much? She couldn't have been better if he had taught her himself. She was self-assured but not smug, a bit snarky at times but the kind that made you want to laugh more than be offended, and that _eternally _flickering smile. It never seemed to quite make up its mind whether to stay or go.

"Sherlock, stop doing a scientific analysis on me and look at this!" the woman said, sitting back triumphantly.

Sherlock uncovered his face and was about to speak when suddenly Mrs. Hudson ran up. "Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver won't leave!"

But Sherlock was in no mood at the current time for anything but work. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your Evening Soother?"

Mrs. Hudson looked like she was about to cry, and heavy footsteps came up behind her on the stairs.

"Sherlock!" Watson said, staring at the screen. The woman was watching Sherlock.

"What is it? Quickly! Where?' Sherlock was fast-talking like he did when he was _really _eager.

"Sherlock, it says the phone is here…in 221 B Baker Street."

"What?" the woman flicked her attention back to the screen. "But how could it be?"

"Well…maybe it was in the case, and fell out or something." Lestrade suggested.

Suddenly the heavy footsteps stopped right out the door.

"What and _I _didn't notice it? ME?" Sherlock gave the look-at-me-do-I-look-stupid-stupid? Look. Again. The woman noticed and raised one eyebrow.

"Perhaps, oh Lord of the Icebergs," she said sweetly, "you will also have noticed that we have a question pending: who hunts in the middle of a crowd? Who can you trust even if you don't know them? If you can answer _that_, I'll tell _you_ why you didn't notice the phone." Then she turned back to the computer screen with Watson.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but his phone beeped before he could reply. He took it out of his jacket, looked at it, and it was as if a trance had fallen over him.

"I need to go," he muttered.

"What? You're leaving? Why?" John looked quizzical.

"Fresh air; be back in a moment." Sherlock spoke slowly as he walked out, and ran down the stairs.

"Oi, where's he going?" John asked the woman.

She was engrossed in her typing and shrugged.

"Great. He's gone and you're no help at all. Lovely." Watson sighed and massaged his temples. What a night.

"I told you; he does that. He's just a psychopath, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time." Sally said this as if she had known it all along and they were just now getting it.

The woman turned towards her with surprising warmth. "Do you think that that's all Sherlock Holmes is made of?" she asked, cocking hr head. "You think he's crazy because he's the most brilliant man I've ever met and a man of upmost action, even if you don't understand his reasons?"

"He might be brilliant to _you_," Sally scoffed, "but to us he's sporadic, inexplicable and just plain _creepy _sometimes."

The woman had her fingertips pressed together, listening. "Hmm. Interesting." Was all she said, and she turned back thoughtfully to the computer.

Suddenly it started beeping again. John saw it and gasped.

"I have to-"

"Go." The woman said encouragingly. "This is your spot of glory."

John smiled as he ran down the stairs and hailed a cab. He was still clutching his laptop.


	5. Chapter 5: Influences

**Chapter Five: Influences**

Once John arrived at his destination, he scanned the hopeless number of Dormitory Buildings and tried the right one first. He ran up the stairs crying, "Sherlock! Sherlock, where are you?" but there was no reply. He tried room after room, and finally on the fifth floor ran into a room where there was a window looking towards the left hand Building. He ran towards it, looked through it…and saw Sherlock with his back towards him talking to a strange old man.

"Sherlock!" he yelled.

No one heard.

He watched in horror for a moment as Sherlock pulled the pink pill out of its bottle and prepared to take it, his hands shaking. John desperately pulled out his gun. He waited a moment, then when it became clear that Sherlock was actually going to take the stupid pill, he fired. The man fell to the floor and Sherlock bent down beside him, speaking.

John put his gun back and ran out as fast as he could.

Awhile later he saw Sherlock talking to Lestrade with a blanket about his shoulders. Sherlock was talking at a very quick rate, and then suddenly mid-sentence he stopped and looked strangely at John. He walked over to him and Watson looked innocently around.

"Terrible business. Dreadful." He said lamely.

"Good shot." Sherlock smiled.

Watson looked slightly surprised. "Oh, yeah; must've been, at that distance."

"Oh, you'd know," was the cryptic reply.

"I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." Sherlock shrugged.

John just cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

"Me? Oh yes; fine."

"Well you have just killed a man." Sherlock persisted.

"Yes well I-" suddenly he stopped, realizing he was caught.

"Yes," he continued slowly, "well, he wasn't a very nice man."

"No; he wasn't was he?"

"Frankly a bloody awful cabby." Watson grinned. At which point both men laughed.

"Yes, you should've seen the route he took us on." Sherlock laughed again.

"Don't giggle; this is a crime scene!" Watson was still grinning, though, as they walked.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped.

"What?" John asked, looking where his companion was staring.

"Look. It's her again." Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Oh yeah; she's good, isn't she?" Watson smiled at her, and she smiled back. It was a warm, friendly smile; completely devoid of sarcasm or insincerity.

"Maybe a little too good." Sherlock muttered as he strode towards her.

She was talking to Sally. "Yeah, I think Lestrade was going to take the Pink case; said he'd put it in storage if we needed it for later. You never did find out who shot the cabby."

Sally nodded and then saw Sherlock. "Oh, look who's here!" she smiled a bit nastily. "Well, I'm off, Cora. See you tomorrow."

"Laters!" said "Cora" answered cheerfully.

"So that's your name, is it?" John asked. "Cora. Nice name."

She shook her head. "No. not my name, actually, just a self proclaimed nickname. My real name is-"

"Petrichor." Sherlock finished.

She smiled at that. "Ah. Got it, did you? Most people don't get that at all."

"Does he look like people?" Watson grinned.

She raised her brows and swept over Sherlock's frame in mock study. "Well, I see your point, but Iceberg here's doing a pretty good impression."

"So you think I'm all ice, do you?" Sherlock queried, in an almost amused tone.

She turned towards him. "Not sure. I'll figure it out."

"How?" Sherlock asked with a slight smirk.

She laughed a clear, ringing, healthy laugh. "I work here; and when the police need someone smart but don't want a woman leading them, they call you. We'll meet again, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm sure." He replied crisply.

"I hope we will, Miss…" John trailed off.

"Skye." She replied. "Dad had a Scandinavian twist."

"So why did they name you Petrichor?" Sherlock asked.

She stood thoughtfully for a moment. "Before I was born, my parents were going to call me Cora; old family name. But the day my mum went to the hospital to give birth, there was a terrible storm; I mean, lightning and wind and hail and everything. Dad was driving her there, and they got stuck between a fallen tree and a mini landslide. My dad got so scared for my mum that he prayed, and he promised God that if they let me and my mum live he'd never forget it. Soon after, the storm cleared up and they made it there in the nick of time."

"So he named you Petrichor because…" John still wasn't getting it.

"When he got out of the car to help my mum, he smelled the earth after all that rain and destruction, and he told me it smelled so…alive. It reminded him, he said, of _my_ life, and he wondered how after all that terror and mess that the land could smell so happy."

"So he named her Petrichor to fulfill his promise; because he remembered how alive it was even after destruction." Sherlock finished quietly, rolling his pale eyes.

"Sappy, yeah?" Cora finished, looking thoughtful. "The nurses were shocked at such a name but my mum loved it, and when I was growing up they told me the story over and over until I thought I had the most beautiful name in the world."

"So why did you shorten it to Cora?" John asked.

She looked away and did not meet their eyes. "I just liked it better shorter."

"Yeah, but the nickname works," John said, trying to be helpful. "I mean like, "PetriCHOR, CORA, it fits."

She smiled. "Yeah. Little bit of irony."

There was silence for a while. Cora broke it first by smiling and saying brightly,

"But enough about my life story; like I said, I'll see you again soon. We can talk more then."

"Skye!" Lestrade motioned her over. As she walked away, she smiled and said in mockery of Sally's words to Watson,

"Keep close to Sherlock Holmes."

Watson saw what she was doing and smiled. "Why?"

"Because he's _brilliant_, that's why!" she grinned. "Almost as brilliant as I am!" And with a laugh, she ran off.

John stood gazing after her with an almost fond expression. "She's good, yeah?" he repeated.

Sherlock was also staring hard after her. "Next time we meet, _Petrichor_, we'll continue our game."

Then he turned to John, and saw his expression and looked surprised. "John, what are you thinking?"

John started and broke his reverie. "Oh, uh, she's nice. Yeah. She's great."

Sherlock remained staring hard at him, and then walked on, Watson trailing behind. Then Watson started and pointed.

"Sherlock; it's him! That man I told you about, that's _him_ over there!"

Sherlock stopped and saw the man standing by Althea. "I know _exactly_ who _that _is." He muttered.

"So," the man said with a smirk. "Another case cracked. How very public spirited. Though that's never _really_ your motive, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, looking around as if the man was a painful secret he wished to hide.

"As ever, I am concerned about you." the man said, the smile gone.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your "concern"." Sherlock answered.

"Always SO aggressive; has it ever occurred to you that we're on the same side?" the man laughed.

"Oddly enough," Sherlock snipped, "_No_."

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe." The man replied.

"I _believe _I have more similarities with _Petrichor_ than _you_." Sherlock sniffed.

The man laughed again. "Oh, so you've met her? I thought she might do you good; another clever person working alongside you. She's really not bad, that one."

Sherlock just grunted.

The man became serious. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will _suffer_, and you know how it's all upset mummy."

"Upset her? _I_ upset her?" Sherlock looked annoyed now. "It wasn't _me_ who upset her, Mycroft!"

"Wait; mummy? Who's mummy?" John asked, completely lost.

"Mother; our mother." Sherlock explained. "This is my brother, Mycroft."

"Putting on weight again?" he smirked.

"Losing it, _in fact_." Mycroft answered.

"So…" John asked in utter confusion, "He's not…"

"Not what?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno…criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough." Sherlock grunted.

"For goodness' sake! I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He _is_ the British Government; when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA or on a freelance basis," Sherlock said coolly. "Good evening, Mycroft. And try not to start a war before I get back; you know what it does to traffic."

Then he walked off.

"So, when you say you're concerned, you actually are concerned?" Watson inquired.

Mycroft looked surprised. "Yes, of course."

"And how do you know Petrichor?"

Mycroft smiled. "She was working as a journalist in Canterbury when I met her. She was cleverer than all the others and _wasted _at her current job. So I took her out, and put her over here with Lestrade. She's happy as a lark here, hardworking, and despite her cleverness it hasn't turned her into a smug block of ice like it has Sherlock."

"So you hope she'll have a good influence on him? Something to warm him up?" John asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Something like that."

"Well…thanks then." Watson turned to go. "Good evening."

He saw Althea by the car. "Oh, hullo. We met earlier."

She looked surprised. "Oh?"

Watson sighed. "Okay, I'm going now."

He ran, caught up with Sherlock, and the two walked off together, chatting.


	6. The Blind Banker

**The Blind Banker**

**Chapter Six: Twelve-Year Olds Have all the Fun**

**Disclaimer: I promise I'll let you know the day I replace Moffat. There's a storm coming-grab the salt, hop in the TARDIS and consult a detective. **

"Oi, Sherlock, I think I'll invite Cora to lunch." Watson said casually as he finished tidying up the flat.

"Yes, very good, fine." Sherlock said absently, reading.

They had met the mysterious Petrichor several times now, and each time she and Sherlock had enjoyed some form of a Battle of Wits or other. John watched half in amusement, half in confusion as they looked over cases together, argued over causes and effects, and once or twice played Cluedo. Sherlock had remained in a cordially competitive frame of mind; and Watson did not fail to notice that every time they met up with her a change went over Sherlock. He instantly became more alert; more focused, and if possible, even more sarcastic, though John saw through this and realized that this was just Sherlock's way of being amicable. Well, trying to be amicable, anyway. Cora had been to tea with them once, when they had taken a brief look at the Lost Diamond. That search had however quickly been abandoned by Sherlock; apparently a lump of precious rock wasn't really worth his time. (Petrichor actually went on later and solved it without him; more a nanny-nanny-boo-boo to Sherlock than anything else.)

"Do you even appreciate the help she's given us?" John asked.

"Help?" Sherlock looked insulted. "She just likes showing off."

John opened his mouth, shut it, and then a look of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Ooh, I see!"

"See what?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I think…that you are a _teensy_ bit _jealous._" Watson grinned.

"ME? JEALOUS? Do you realize what you're saying? What do I have to be jealous of from _her_?"

"Because people like her, and she might like showing off but she's kind and friendly and on top of it she's got heaps of brains! I wonder where she studied." He added the last bit as an afterthought.

"You mean _you _like her!" Sherlock almost spat the words.

John looked defensive. "Alright. So maybe I do. What difference does it make?"

"You're standing up for her because you like her, do you see? It's a psychological effect," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. But he looked, just a little, hurt.

"And you think I wouldn't stand up for you?" John's voice was strangely quiet.

"Well…you said yourself she's likeable. She calls me Iceberg, for God's sake!" he exclaimed with a half chuckle.

"Sherlock, I confess, you are certainly very relatable to an iceberg on the outside, but I think inwardly you want people to admire and respect you too."

"No I don't," he denied. "I don't care a fig what people think."

"You're right," John said after a pause. "And that's your problem. You've gotten so used to being alone and having people think you creepy or strange that you've given up faith in people's opinions. But they really do matter, Sherlock."

To that Sherlock made no answer.

After a while of silence, John hopped up and said briskly, "I'm going to get some groceries for lunch. Be back in a bit."

Sherlock picked up a book and starting thumbing through it. "Yes, alright, have fun."

Watson smiled. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?'

"Nope," was his only answer.

Watson smiled again, grabbed his wallet, and went out.

Sometime later, he returned, empty handed. Sherlock was still sitting in the chair from which he had (apparently) not moved.

"You took your time," was his only comment.

"Yeah…I didn't get the shopping done." Watson said irritably.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from his book. "Why?"

"Because," John's voice was frustrated now, "I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and pin machine."

"You had a row…with a machine?" Sherlock asked with some amusement.

"Yeah, and Cora's going to get here soon…Gosh, I need to hurry, have you got cash?"

"Take my card." Sherlock replied affably, gesturing with his head to the wallet that lay on the kitchen table.

"Thanks." As John took it off the table, he noticed an inexplicable new scratch. He rubbed it with his thumb, but made no comment.

Ten minutes later his firm, quick tread sounded on the stairs and he bore his prize up the stairs.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage." He muttered…and saw Sherlock still sitting.

He set down the groceries, and then started as a ring on the door sounded.

"That's her, and I don't even have lunch out!" he gasped.

"Oh relax, it's just Petrichor." Sherlock sniffed.

"Yes, indeed John, just relax." Cora's voice floated up the stairs. John sent an accusing glance at Sherlock, who shrugged and sat farther back in his chair.

Petrichor came up, wearing a pair of lavender coloured jeans and a royal blue fluttery tunic with the same colour blue espadrilles, matching the tones of spring. She brought with her a blackberry shortcake.

"Oh thanks, Cora, you didn't have to do that," Watson smiled.

She grinned as she set it down and shook his hand cordially. "But I wanted to."

She turned to Sherlock, walked deliberately over and plopped down in the chair beside him, folding up her legs and saying brightly,

"And how are you, Iceberg?"

Sherlock did not respond.

"Oh, I see, you don't like that name much so you're not answering," she said with a smile. "But not to worry, I can read what you're thinking in the tapping of your hands and the roving of your eyes. You're bored, and a bored Sherlock is not good, is it, John?

"No," he affirmed emphatically.

"Well then," she sent a teasing look at Watson. "We'll just have to liven him up."

"I am not in need of livening." Sherlock responded coolly.

"Precise evidence that you do; people love to contradict you with assertions of the opposite; and you're unconsciously doing that right now." Petrichor jumped out of the chair with her accustomed liveliness and began helping John set the table.

"Sorry it's such a mess," he apologized.

She gave him a reassuring punch on the arm and looked around with laughing eyes. _How could she always be so happy?_ Watson wondered.

"I love messy things; life is just one big lovely mess so of course everything else follows suite."

"Wrong," said Sherlock.

"Pardon?" she turned towards him halfway between pouring glasses of ice water.

"I am not unconsciously denying my contradiction; I am in fact, asserting it."

"You're still thinking about that?" John asked in disbelief.

"I'm always thinking; it's not my fault I have to be always doing so." He gestured his hands as if in a token of innocence.

"Quite right, but you're trying to be unpredictable, quite failing, I'm afraid, though it's a valiant effort." She finished pouring the water and placed them down on the now neatly set table.

John smiled at her. He was beginning to like Cora very much; which anyone with half a brain could probably notice in small ways; his use of her nickname, letting her help him…things like that. She seemed to like him too, but he didn't like her enough to talk about it. It was just a warm feeling when he saw her, happiness when she spoke to him; small things.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice this, (he acted more or less oblivious to this sort of thing) but John _had _noticed that he didn't seem to act with indifference towards Cora; Watson suspected that he rather enjoyed giving his brain a good workout, and he showed it in his own cool way.

"Lunch is ready!" she beckoned to him, one eyebrow raised in token of amusement.

Sherlock sat for a moment, and then leapt out of his chair, not to be outdone by a woman, and sat down at the table.

"Thank you." he said affably as they began eating their meal.

They chatted for awhile, talking about jobs and cases and family and the like. Mrs. Hudson was gone to see Mr. Chattergy again, so they had the flat to themselves.

"Do you take sugar?" asked John as he offered her coffee.

She smiled and shook her head. "The only sweetener I take is a smile."

Sherlock scoffed.

She turned to him quizzically. "I take it you do not approve of smiling, Mr. Holmes?' I certainly don't see _you_ employing that expression often."

"Not at all; I simply consider it a waste of time when there is work to be done." He replied cynically. "Speaking of…he pulled out John's laptop and began reading…something on it.

"You know, this is the second confiscation of my laptop I've had in two months." John sighed. "And it's password protected!"

"In a manner of speaking; took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox, are you?"

Watson took his laptop back with a grunt and Petrichor laughed softly. "Change the password, John."

He looked up, and then shot a glance of defiance at Sherlock. "I will. In fact, I'll do it right now."

He clicked a few things, then typed something in, and finally clicked a button. "There!" he said triumphantly. "I bet no one will bust THIS one!"

"Okay then…gimme," Cora ordered, and he handed her the laptop with a confident smile.

It showed a picture of a cat and a Password Hint that said in black letters: **My Best Friend.**

Cora laughed and typed in five keys, then started scrolling down. "Hm," she said to Sherlock. "Old Uni friend, hey?"

Sherlock nodded, sipping his coffee. John started.

"But-that-was…"

"Protected?" she looked up, smiling. "I suppose so. Not to ME, but to any ordinary bloke it was fairly clever." She gave it up and laughed. "Well, I say _clever_…"

"Okay then," John sighed, "tell me HOW you knew that."

"You're a veteran recently returned from Afghanistan; you have a sister whose character has already been discussed, probably don't have that many friends; let alone a best friend. You and Sherlock are off to a good start, but you still think him arrogant and selfish at times; quite correctly, I'm afraid." She winked though, to show she didn't completely mean it. "Plus the quite obvious fact that you have a picture of a cat; not some pretty little thing they use in advertisements; no offense but he's rather ugly; got part of an ear nipped off and other scars. Which suggests that you have an affectionate attachment to him; I can tell quite easily especially by the scars that it's a "he", and judging by the fact that you typed in only five keys, it didn't take me long to select a nice, common candidate. Really, John, you're a good two-fingered typist, but it's so easy to guess that way. Just a friendly bit of advice."

Then she calmly sat back and sipped her tea as if this was completely normal; another day at the office, as it were. But John turned to Sherlock, who was also sitting quietly munching on a biscuit, and said,

"Tell me that she's not a genius."

"I prefer SOCIOPATH, thanks," Cora put in.

Sherlock just shrugged nonchalantly as he wiped away the biscuit crumbs. "She's just got a brain," was his only comment.

"Alright, then," Cora laughed, "but seriously, what I want to know is what's the cipher?"

"Don't know; I'll find out." Sherlock said, getting up.

But John dragged him back down. "Uh-uh, mister, you're going to stay at least long enough to help us clean up the lunch _you _so _generously_ helped to _eat_!"

"But come on; this is so dull compared to my work!" Sherlock protested.

"Come on, Sherlock!" Cora said cheerfully, moving over to where he was to get some dishes. "Where's your spirit of adventure?"

"In my work!" he muttered as he followed her also carrying dishes to wash.

He set them down in the sink and started washing up. "What you did with John's password, that was…"

"Elementary." She grinned.

"Yes. Exactly." And a tiny glimmer of a smile appeared on his face.

She turned to finish washing, but suddenly they both made a grab for the sponge and their hands brushed. Sherlock felt her hand, all sudsy and warm, and turned towards her with an almost befuddled expression on his face. But she had the sponge already and was cleaning the dishes. She saw his odd expression, and mimicked it.

"Problem?"

He shook his head as John brought the last stack of dishes and Petrichor dried the wet ones. "No."

She shrugged and jumped up and down once as the last dish was put away. "Now let's ALLONS-Y!"

"What?" John asked.

"French; literally meaning 'let's go'", Sherlock explained.

Cora nodded.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and almost as excitedly as Cora started heading for the stairs. "Come on!"

"Right behind you!" Cora yelled as she thundered down the stairs, the heels of her espadrilles sounding like cannon-booms, leaving a bewildered John to shake his head, muttering,

"Sometimes I'm not sure if she's not just an overgrown twelve-year old."


	7. Chapter 7-Sunday Funday

**Chapter Seven: Duos Detecting, Idiots Correcting**

Upon arriving at the bank, they took the escalator up to the second floor, and while it slowly carried them upwards John noticed both Cora and Sherlock looking around; taking everything in. He smiled in some amusement as they finally reached the top and began walking to the front desk that had **Shad Sanderson** written all over it at different points.

Sherlock smiled coolly at the woman sitting there. "Sherlock Holmes, and my two colleagues," he introduced them, and with a nod the woman picked up the Telecom and said, "Sebastian Wilkes, your clients are here- Sebastian Wilkes to the front."

After about five minutes wait in between which time John could tell Sherlock was getting bored and had to keep asking questions about Mr. Wilkes and such, the very man came around the corner. He smiled at them, and his eyes lingered a little longer on Petrichor. Sherlock noticed, and wondered what about _her_ was so special.

But then he noticed Sebastian noticing him and shook his hand with that same cool smile. "Sherlock!" Sebastian grinned. "How you been, buddy? What's it been…eight years since I last saw you?"

"This is my…_friend_ John Watson," Sherlock answered, as if the concept of Friends was still a bit new to him, "and my colleague Petrichor Skye."

Sebastian shook hands with both of them respectively and then paused at John. "Friend?" he asked, surprised himself.

"Also a colleague," John replied a bit stiffly. Petrichor just stood and hid a smile as Seb looked at both Sherlock and John and said finally,

"Right. Well then. I'll grab the Que." Mr. Wilkes ushered them into his office where three chairs awaited beside his desk, and he pulled out Cora's especially.

"Been a bit busy?" Sherlock inquired coolly.

Sebastian looked up at him like he hadn't heard what he had said.

"Must've," Petrichor looked over at Sherlock and he nodded.

'Sorry?" Sebastian asked, still not getting it.

"Well you've been around the world twice in one month!" Sherlock continued. "You must have been busy."

"Okay, tell me how you knew that," Mr. Wilkes demanded. "Was it my clothes, or some special kind of ketchup you can only find in New York, or what?"

Sherlock sat for a moment in silence, and then said slowly, "No…I was just talking to your secretary. She told me."

Seb sat back, (possibly a trifle awkwardly) and laughed. "Right. You're doing that thing again."

He turned to Petrichor and John, sitting in silent amusement of the whole thing. "We were in UNI together," he explained, "he had this trick he'd do."

"It's…not a trick." Sherlock tried, but Seb was not to be cut off.

"He had this thing where you'd come down the next morning and he could tell you'd been out the last night shagging."

"Really?" Petrichor murmured; the picture of innocence.

Sherlock glared at her and Watson stifled a laugh.

"I'm sure he was just being…" here she paused as if searching for a word, then found one: "_Observant_."

"Yes, quite so." Seb laughed again. Then he turned back to Sherlock. "She's pretty _and _clever," he smiled a bit patronizingly. "Where'd you pick _her_ up?"

"On a murder-crime scene," Sherlock answered just as deprecatingly, taking sweet revenge on the secretly irritated Petrichor.

"Well anyway, to business," Sebastian straightened his tie. "We've had a break-in last night at the office of Mr. Frank William; former Chair Office. You'll probably want to see."

He got up and gestured for them to follow him. The trio did so, John, who was the last whispering to Cora,

"I told you…he'll do anything to get the last word."

"Indeed." She answered, aiming to get the final stab. (She was only human, and a woman at that; so we mustn't be too hard on her.) "Quite amusing."

Sherlock just scoffed as they reached the office cubicles and Seb continued, "The break-in was made late last night."

"What was taken?" Inquired John.

"Nothing," Sebastian shrugged. "Just left a little…message."

They advanced until they reached the very last cubicle, in front of which was a portrait of a man with strange yellow symbols sprayed across his eyes, covering them over and more of them beside the picture on the wall.

"Sixty seconds apart;" Mr. Wilkes informed Petrichor, who was clicking the buttons on the Computer Security Footage.

"So very simply," Cora gathered, "Someone came up here in the middle of the night, sprayed paint around, and left within a minute?"

Sherlock nodded. "It would seem so."

"How many ways come into that office?" John asked quizzically.

"Well that's actually where it gets really interesting," Sebastian had a funny look on his face.

"No doors opened were logged into the system; and we have alarms on every one. There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you…handsomely."

He held out a cheque to Sherlock, but his voice was cold as he retorted,

"I don't _need_ an incentive…_Sebastian_."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Sherlock asked Petrichor,

"Fancy a look around?"

She grinned. "Love one."

Just before she walked off with Sherlock, she turned and handed Mr. Wilkes back a piece of paper; one side having his number and the other saying in bold black letters,

**Never going to happen.**

Sebastian was speechless with surprise as she flashed him a cool smile, and daintily turning round walked away with Sherlock, talking about different observations they had made.

As they walked off together, leaving John with the unfortunate Mr. Wilkes still awkwardly holding the piece of paper, and said,

"Of course he was kidding…um, mind if I hold onto that?"

Sebastian nodded shortly and handed the cheque to John who then with a grateful second nod walked off to find the Detecting Duo.


	8. Chapter 8

**Again, thank you all so much for following and reading this story...I know updates are slow but I lead a busy life and so enjoy hearing what you think! Please leave reviews, kudos, follows, ect. at your discretion! :)**

**Chapter Eight: Asking the Right Questions**

Meanwhile said Duo were exploring, Petrichor inspecting where Mr. Van Coon had been working, (and getting some very strange looks while doing so) and Sherlock looked over the balcony and the rooftop in an attempt to find any means of entryway. Cora bobbed up and down, running about the office and grinning at people. As she passed by the Printing Cubicle she was quite certain she heard someone say,

"I didn't know they'd passed an edict about Lunatics working at banks; when did that happen?"

Petrichor saw Sherlock coming back, winked at him and began muttering to herself as she worked. Completely random things such as,

"Water tumblers serve no purpose for frying eggs!"

And, "The Queen's lost 'er head! The process is reversed!" she cackled, "Heaven save us all, ya bloomin' lugnuts!"

Now even Sherlock was staring at her, and as she came up to him upon finishing her mad excursion he murmured,

"Since when do you attract people's attention by pretending to be stark raving mad?"

She scoffed. "Oh please, Iceberg, can't a girl have a little fun? Work and play, they tell us, but why not do it at the same time?" Her green eyes snapped with merriment, (somehow rather devoid of insanity, however) abut she straightened herself and walked into the next office with an air of regality. No one here had seen her performance, and Sherlock wondered how she could change her attitude and posture so quickly; like a chameleon simply changing its skin.

"Practice makes perfect." She said suddenly.

"What?" Sherlock feigned quizzicality.

She sighed and turned to him. "First off, you're an excellent liar when you want to be, but frankly I don't think you're making that much effort, and secondly: you had that funny look on your face when you're wondering why I do things. The deduction was simple."

"What was?" John asked, coming up with a slightly embarrassed smile. "And I'll have you know that I think Sebastian was quite cut up by your refusal."

Petrichor's laugh was like bubbles rising, and several people looked around to find its source. Sherlock suddenly had a vision of a cool green sea washing against a white shore and laughter echoing everywhere from nowhere. He shook himself violently and stared at her as if she were some evil spirit. No, _Sherlock Holmes_ did not have flights of the imagination. _Sherlock Holmes_ was a detective; practical, strong and completely governed by logic.

John grinned at him. "Sherlock, you look like you just had an unpleasant vision and then told it to leave."

"Maybe I did," Sherlock muttered as they went back down the escalator.

When they reached the bottom and were walking out the doors John turned to Sherlock and asked, "Okay, you didn't ask his secretary; you just said that to annoy him. So how did you know?"

Sherlock sighed. "Petrichor?"

She nodded, "Did you see his watch? The time was right but the date was off by two days. Travelling to New York would have caused him to change his watch accordingly…he just forgot to change it back."

"You're absolutely fantastic!" John said admiringly, (but no longer in amazement.)

Cora just waved it off with a smile.

As if she didn't already know.

They walked down the street someway; Cora having suggested they get the exercise.

"That cipher was a message." Sherlock put in.

"Who for?" John asked.

"While I was, _ahem_," Petrichor cleared her throat, "pottering about, I noticed columns."

"Columns?" Watson queried.

"Yes; those columns obstructed most of the view; that narrows down the field considerably," Sherlock continued. "It was done at 11:34 last night; some people come in for the Hong Kong accounts in the evening. That message was intended for someone who came in at Midnight."

"Well that still leaves the question of _who_ it was meant for," John reminded him.

"Yes indeed," Petrichor smiled, "but that cipher could only be seen from a clear point from the office of Edward Van Coon."

"Not many of those in the phone-book." Sherlock nodded.

"So we find them, and they'll lead us to whoever made the cipher!" John deduced.

"Obvious," was Sherlock's gratifying response. "Taxi!" he called, waving over a cab.

They found Mr. Van Coon's apartment without much difficulty, but there was no response to Sherlock's repeated ringing.

Suddenly Petrichor grinned and reaching over buzzed the flat just above Van Coon's. After a moment it was answered by a pleasant young woman's,

"Hello?"

"Yes," Cora said, smooth as silk, "I live in the flat below you…I don't think we've met."

"Yes, well, um, I just moved in," the woman explained apologetically.

"Right," Cora answered, darting a triumphant glance at Sherlock, "I seem to have…locked my keys in my flat."

"Oh, well, do you need me to buzz you in?"

"Yes! Thank you!" Cora smiled her sweetest smile. "And can I use your balcony?"

"Nicely played," Sherlock murmured as they ascended the stairs.

She flashed her bright smile at him; "Why thank you, Iceberg!"

"He loves it when you call him that."John added wickedly.

Petrichor laughed, and then motioned them to stay behind. "Let me handle this. Be back in a mo."

She ran lightly up the flight of stairs betwixt her and the new lady and they heard the sound of a door opening.

A few moments later they heard a light thud! Then a pattering of espadrilled feet and then the door opened as Cora, with a triumphant smile, admitted them in.

"_Voila_!" she beamed.

"Yes, yes, very impressive," Sherlock muttered as he began sorting through things, looking for clues. But even John noticed he DID look a _little_ impressed nonetheless.

The room was nicely and expensively furnished; with bookshelves and tables to match the white furniture.

Cora meanwhile explored the bathroom…and then saw another room with the doors closed. Sherlock and John had by this time come up, and with Sherlock's help they kicked open the door.

Inside was the bedroom…and on the bedroom lay the still figure of a man, presumably Edward Van Coon, dead with a bullet through his skull and a gun on the bed.

Ten minutes later the police arrived, with a new Detective Inspector at their head. Lestrade was, apparently busy, so _Detective Inspector Dimuk_ was left in charge. Cora could tell by the coolness in Sherlock's eyes that he was not pleased with him. Oh no, precious. Not pleased at all.

"He's been away…three days, judging by the smell of the laundry. Care to check, Petrichor?" Sherlock offered.

She wrinkled her nose just a tad; she might be the Under-DI but she was still a woman. "Um, no, thanks; I'll take your word for it." She held a thumbs-up to show that she meant it.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence; this is a crime scene, not a playground." Dimuk informed them crisply.

Sherlock just stood up and coldly handed him a bag containing the bullet with which Van Coon had been shot.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimuk said with arrogant assurance.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John shrugged.

"Wrong!" Sherlock and Petrichor both answered at the same time.

They looked at each other, and Cora inclined her head. "Sherlock, I'll let you take the wheel."

Sherlock nodded and continued, "It's _one possible_ explanation of _some_ of the facts. You've found a solution and you like it; you're ignoring all the other ones that disagree."

"Like?" Dimuk asked.

"The wound was on the right side of Van Coon's head," Sherlock explained with admirable patience.

"So?" Dimuk must've taken a spoonful of _Dullness_ tonic today. It probably said, "Drink me" or something.

Petrichor sighed and answered for Sherlock, "Van Coon was left handed."

There was a slight pause as if no one else had grasped this, so Cora shrugged and went on. "The evidence is all around you; the coffee mug's handle was on the right side; butter on the right hand of the knife because he picked it up with his left; same thing with the phone."

"Requires quite a bit of contortion, don't you think?" Sherlock couldn't resist that last jab, and Dimuk scoffed.

"I'm amazed you didn't notice; the evidence was all there for you to see. What is it with you people and _not being observant_?" Sherlock complained wearily. Then he turned to Petrichor with a somewhat affable shrug. "Well…maybe not you."

"Thank you; you're simply too kind," she retorted in that sugary sweet voice of hers that for some reason made other people melt. Not he!

"It's highly unlikely that a _left-handed_ man would shoot himself on the _right_ side of his head," he concluded.

"Which means that someone broke in here last night and murdered him," Cora added.

"What about the gun?" John asked.

"He was waiting for the killer…he'd been threatened," Sherlock surmised.

"But how'd he get in?" Dimuk inquired.

"Ah!" Sherlock smiled sarcastically. "Good! You're finally asking the right questions."


	9. Chapter 9-Enthusiast My Raz

**As a reward for waiting so patiently, I have _two _chapters for you today. :D thanks so much!**

**Chapter Nine: Enthusiast My Raz**

That evening Sherlock went with John to find Sebastian; Petrichor opting to stay behind seeing that her job was the Under-DI, (and also because she was not eager to see Mr. Wilkes again.) So, going alone in the cab, Sherlock realized how much quieter the cab ride was. John thought he was thinking, and gave him respectful silence. But even he noticed, and said so.

"Petrichor's absence is noted," he smiled.

"Mm. Yes." Sherlock murmured, looking out the window.

"But of course you don't care," John said cruelly. He couldn't help it; he was still a human.

Sherlock's head went up rather quickly. "What makes you say that?" he asked, sounding offended.

John grinned. "Ohh…so you actually do notice things like that?"

"I try to be observant," Sherlock retorted, seeing through his joke and choosing not to play along.

They rode in silence until they reached the restaurant where Sebastian was apparently eating, but they were coolly received, to say the least.

"My chairman says it was a suicide," he informed them, looking at his phone.

"Well they've got it _wrong_," Sherlock said, somewhat forcefully. "Van Coon was murdered."

"I'm afraid they don't see it that way," Sebastian retorted, "and neither does my boss. Look, I hired you to do a job; don't get sidetracked."

Sherlock glared at him as he left the wash-up room, and John gave a disappointed smile. "I'm guessing you weren't the best of friends?"

Sherlock gave him a look as if to say, _friends? What friends?_

"I thought bankers were all _supposed_ to be heartless bastards." John added somewhat sarcastically.

"Oh really?" Sherlock fixed his pale eyes on him. "Where'd you get that idea?"

He turned and strode out of the room, and John followed close enough behind to hear him add under his breath,

"And where is Petrichor with a good crushing note when you need her?"

John just chuckled. He was beginning to realize that maybe Sherlock did have friends after all.

The mysterious assassin struck again in the night; this time it was a free-lance Journalist named Brian Lukis. The next morning Sherlock went through the same rigmarole of suicide vs. murder with Dimuk, all to no avail. The only thing that got them through, actually, was Petrichor mysteriously showing up with personal orders from Lestrade to give them five minutes in Brian Lucas' flat.

"How'd you get him to do that?" John asked.

Petrichor looked away, out the window of the cab and looked slightly embarrassed.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded.

She rolled her eyes and turned around somewhat defiantly. "I, erm, brought up a valid point which he saw immediately. He consented."

"And your valid point was?" Sherlock probed.

Her glance was withering as she answered, "His wife and he have been separated for some time, as you know, but he didn't know where she was. I," she cleared her throat, "got the necessary information to tell him her location. In return, he granted you five minutes."

"Seems like small payment for such a lot of work," John observed admiringly.

She smiled warmly at him. "Thank you, John, and it was nothing, really."

"The domestic approach," Sherlock mused. "Effective, I grant you that. There's nothing more a little old lady likes better than a good gossip."

Petrichor's cheeks were rather red, but she simply nodded.

Sherlock suddenly looked up again, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Ahhhhh!" he smiled, "so one of these old ladies said something that pertained to you?"

Cora folded her arms irritably. "They said I had no business being on a police-force, and I was probably just there to…" she stopped, clearly still embarrassed.

"To what?" John asked kindly.

She sighed. "To find a man." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She turned almost pleadingly to Sherlock and John. "But you know that none of that's true?"

"Of course we do," John answered reassuringly, "and you're absolutely brilliant. Isn't she, SHERLOCK?" he said, darting a meaningful look at his companion, prompting him to similar words.

Sherlock shrugged. "If you know it's untrue why do you care?"

She smiled somewhat ruefully. "Because I'm afraid I still care about the public's opinion of me."

"Nothing wrong with that," Watson replied as the cab pulled up beside the house and they went inside.

They ran up the stairs and immediately separated: Cora with Dimuk, (they cast lots in the car; she lost) and Sherlock with John. They explored every inch of the flat, but despite their effort Sherlock could not discover anything that seemed to link Brian Lukis to Van Coon. A result that _exceedingly_ irritated Dimuk, although Sherlock DID deduce that the killer was somehow getting up the walls. Petrichor, on their way out, saw a book and on a whim opened it. It was a fiction checked out at West-Kensington Library. She showed it to Sherlock.

"It's just an idea but suppose we go take a look there? We might find a book that could help us."

Sherlock shrugged and John approved of the idea, and after declaring themselves finished with the house (and Dimuk) they left for the library.

The West-Kensington Library was a huge building with four floors, and they decided to start on the second where Lukis' book had been checked out. As they stepped onto the moving escalator John grinned as he noticed Cora leaning out over the rail looking with fascination at the people below.

"You really are such a child at heart," he laughed.

She turned to where she could see him and grinned back. "Perhaps, but we take this so much for granted. I mean, put one of these things in the medieval period and think about what it would mean to them!"

"They'd probably think of it as some form of witchcraft," Sherlock shrugged.

"Or magic," Petrichor smiled fondly at the word as if hiding a delightful secret.

They were at the top by now and Sherlock flipped through the book again as they headed for its shelf.

"It was checked out on the same day he died," he mused, pulling out books and looking at them.

Meanwhile as Cora searched the isle across John pulled out a book behind Sherlock. A strange look came over his face and he pulled out another, and then a handful.

"Sherlock," he said in a funny voice.

Sherlock turned towards him, and together they saw it. Those same two symbols that had decorated the painting at the bank.

"Petrichor!" Sherlock called and waved his arm over.

"Shh!" She hissed, coming over to them. "This IS a library, if you will kindly remember."

Sherlock just scoffed; "People just do that to be annoying."

John smiled a little. "Then why don't you do it?"

Sherlock glared at him and Petrichor stifled a giggle. "Not helping."

Petrichor took a look at the symbol and agreed with Sherlock as they compared pictures they had taken on their phones; his Blackberry and her Iphone. They were the exact same symbols in the exact same paint presumably by the same artist.

The ride back to the flat was quiet, so full of "thinking sounds" as John said that it nearly drove him off the wall. Or should I say door?

"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John asked sadly as they stood in front of the many pictures they had taken.

"Only the ciphers can tell us," Sherlock murmured.

Petrichor had dropped herself off at Scotland Yard under orders from the loathed Dimuk to "cover more ground" as he said, or "to check me out," as Cora contradicted. Either way, she was now gone and the two men stood looking that the pictures they had gotten of the ciphers.

"What now?" Watson asked finally.

Sherlock shook his head as if just awakening and answered, "We need to consult an expert."

They walked down to the Museum of Ancient History, up the steps and then behind the huge building.

"Sorry, why are we going here?" John wondered, puzzled.

"I need to ask some advice about the painter," Sherlock answered coolly.

"Sorry?" John laughed.

Sherlock sighed; "You heard me, and I shall not repeat myself."

"Sherlock Holmes needs advice," John mused. "Now I've seen everything."

Behind the Museum in the alleyway stood just what they were looking for: a young man heavily graphitizing a wall with a frankly alarming image.

"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," said young man explained to them.

"Catchy," John looked a bit askance.

"I've got two minutes before a CSO comes around that corner," the young man continued, "Can you not do this while I'm working?"

In answer Sherlock held out his phone, and the young man took it quizzically. He then saw the images and flipped through them, observing the mysterious ciphers.

"Recognize the author?" Sherlock asked.

The young man looked up. "Recognize the paint; Lake Michigan Hard-Core Propellant."

John laughed again and turned to Sherlock. "Cora was right after all!"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked surprised.

"Remember, on her blog she said she could guess the paint, and she was right!" John reminded him.

"Oh. Yes. That." Sherlock shrugged it off, but inwardly he was a teensy bit impressed. Just a bit.

"But what about the symbols? Do you recognize them?" Sherlock turned back to the young man.

"Not even sure it's a proper language, actually," the young man shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John smiled slightly. _Well, we can't all be bored, raving mad geniuses, can we?_ His look said.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz, deciphering this is the key to stop more from dying. Now will you help us or not?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

John started. "Wait, you know this guy?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and "Raz" looked insulted. "Obviously," was the sociopath's only reply.

"I'll ask around," Raz nodded.

Suddenly a yell was heard coming from the corner Raz had spoken of's direction. Two officers came barreling towards them; Sherlock and Raz took flight but poor Watson was left holding the bottle of paint and placed in a very awkward situation.

"Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" the first police officer said.

"No, it's not like that it's…" John gave it up. The bag of paint was at his feet and his "friend" and his "friend's" "friend" had taken off into the blue. _And that's what you get for helping friends' friends,_ John sighed inwardly. If only Petrichor was there…


	10. Chapter 10: Field Trip (To come)

**Chapter Ten: Field Trip (to Come)**

Half an hour later the doors to 221B Baker Street slammed shut as a frankly irate Watson stomped up the stairs.

"You've been a while," was Sherlock's (unwise) observation.

John turned to him, and if looks could kill, Sherlock would be a cold, heartless little pile of ash floating away on the wind.

"Yeah well, you know how it is," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "Custody Sergeants don't really like to be rushed. Just formalities…finger prints, charge sheet; I've got to be in Magistrate's Court on Tuesday."

"What?" Sherlock looked up as if he hadn't heard any of it.

"ME, in COURT on TUESDAY," SHERLOCK!" Watson shouted. "They're giving me an ASBO."

"Good, fine, excellent…" Sherlock lowered his head again to look at the pictures.

Again, little pile of ash with added sizzling eternity of pain and a side of rheumatism.

"Yeah, and you're welcome to tell your little pal he can show up any time he likes," John continued, stalking across the room.

He began taking his jacket off, but Sherlock suddenly jumped up and shoved it back on him. "No, no," he ordered, "I need you to go to the police-office, find out about the Journalist; personal habits, moods, whatnot."

John groaned as he (yet again) allowed Sherlock to tell him what to do, (he really needed to break off that habit; it wasn't good for peace of mind or personal health.)

"I'm going to see Van Coon's PA," Sherlock added.

"But won't Cora be there already?" John asked, a bit envious that _he_ got the boring job.

Sherlock nodded; "Yes, and I need to compare notes."

Watson sighed. "Yes, fine then, I'll leave you two heartless geniuses alone." He turned as if to walk away, and then turned around; "Actually, I take it back, Petrichor has a heart, and a big one at that." He began walking and then threw over his shoulder, "Not sure if I can say the same about _you_."

Sherlock just stared after him, slightly irritated, then shook his head and walked away. He wondered about what Petrichor had found, and if she had already talked to van Coon's PA or not…and then he discovered that he was actually getting a teensy bit excited about seeing her. He shook himself again, sharply reminding himself that he was there to work, not to see _Petrichor._

But the excitement didn't go away.

Upon arriving at the bank, (and without saying hello to Sebastian) Sherlock went immediately upstairs to indeed find a certain dark-haired girl talking with a business man who (apparently) worked in the cubicle next to van Coon and knew him fairly well.

"And he told me the day he left that he was going to Hong Kong, but he wouldn't tell me why!" The business man said as Petrichor nodded. Then she caught sight of Sherlock, and smiling, held up one finger signifying a moment to wait. "Right, thank you very much for your cooperation!" She smiled brightly at the fat, middle aged man and he grinned back toothily. "Aye, thank you!" he called after her.

"Always glad to help a pretty girl," he chuckled to himself, but Cora heard it and blushed. Sherlock knew she hated it when people made remarks about her just because she was a woman.

She walked up to said Detective and grinned. "Well then soldier, how goes the day?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Tolerable, John's apparently got a court appointment on Tuesday."

Petrichor's eyebrows shot up. "What did he do?"

Sherlock fumbled slightly, "Well, um, it wasn't really him, there was a museum at a painter, no," he shook himself, "wait, there was paint and-"

"Let me guess," Cora cut him off crisply, "you went to the back of the museum to chat with our mutual acquaintance Raz, John came with you, the poor wee bairn, and you left him with Raz's latest work of art and a bag of spray-paint just as the coppers showed up?" she stood, hands on hips, clearly in "I'm warning you to choose your words _very carefully_" mode.

Sherlock sighed a little regretfully. "Well there was work to be done and it was _his_ fault for hanging around."

"What, because he trusted you _not_ to do something like that?" Petrichor's eyes were like wet roses made of jade. Sherlock couldn't decide if that was a really useful talent or just plain annoying for being so effective. "Friends don't leave friends behind, Iceberg."

Sherlock looked up coldly. "Well then it's a good thing I don't have any friends."

Cora's eyes looked sad for a moment, and then she straightened herself and gestured to an office where a blond woman typed at a computer. "Van Coon's PA is there, I saved you the honour of the interrogation."

Sherlock nodded and was about to walk away when Petrichor's voice echoed in his ears,

"And Sherlock?"

He turned. "What?"

"Yes, you do."

And she walked quietly away towards the back of the office where she began viewing Van Coon's file records for departures, sick-days and whatnot.

Sherlock watched her go, her graceful form swaying in her knee-length lavender dress and black espadrilles. He might not have friends… but that was becoming a dangerous possibility.

He chatted with the PA, discovering that Van Coon was not a very appreciative boss, and the day he died had taken a cab to work and then the tube back while stopping at a café on the way. When he was finished and had thanked Amanda, he walked over to the end of the office close to where Petrichor was working. She had her back turned to him and he walked completely noiselessly among the busy office. He must have been there a minute or so when without turning her back Cora said coolly,

"You can keep staring; Iceberg, but you won't bore holes through me."

"Hrm." Sherlock murmured, as if debating this inwardly.

He walked to her desk and peered over. "Any luck?"

"Um…yes!" she smiled and held up a small, fat notebook of dark blue. "This is my…evidence book, and I put in all the dates and places Van Coon has been in the past six months."

Sherlock reached for her notebook but she pulled it away, grinning. "You can look at it on the way out."

"On the way out?" he asked quizzically.

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes, that is what you came to talk to me about, isn't it? You wouldn't have come over here for no reason and you've clearly finished with Ms. Amanda, so shall we be off to find the Faithful John?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think that's a good plan. He was supposed to get Lucas' information," he explained on the way down the escalator.

"Good plan," Cora approved, "but we still don't know where Van Coon went the day he died."

"And that's why we need John," Sherlock answered as they exited the building and began walking down the street.

They paused on the edge of China Town, looking about on the streets and talking. An older couple walking past smiled, and the woman said to them,

"I hope you don't mind me saying it, but you two make a lovely couple!" she smiled at her husband; "so natural looking."

Sherlock's face looked like it was in complete neural shutdown, but Petrichor (who though blushing furiously was still in possession of her wits) said quickly,

"Um, yeah, thank you, but we're _not_ a couple!"

However it was too late; the old lady and her husband were either out of earshot or too deaf to hear her. She turned to Sherlock, still looking like he didn't understand what was going on. She punched him somewhat forcefully on the shoulder, (though there is some excuse for her),

"Wake up, Iceberg! I didn't come here to be told with whom my destiny lies."

Sherlock frowned. "Are you saying you're irritated with the old woman?"

"I didn't see you being very helpful," she retorted.

"It's not like-" Sherlock began, but Cora was walking across the street and he had to run to catch up with her. He gave it up with a sigh of annoyance. Women. Old women and young women…he would never understand them.

The two of them kept walking down the street in relative silence until Sherlock turned around to see the shops…and then promptly crashed into John.

"John-" Petrichor grinned. "We were just looking for you!"

"Yeah, I see that," Watson remarked dryly as he straightened his jacket from the collision with Sherlock.

"Eddie Van Coon had a drop-off point where he would meet with Lucas," Sherlock explained quickly, "I don't know where it is…somewhere close-"

"Sherlock-" Watson tried, but was promptly cut off.

"I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information," Sherlock went on.

"Sherlock," John was cut off again.

"But I don't know where!" the frustrated detective cried.

"That shop, right over there," John pointed with the notebook he held.

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

Petrichor smiled and pointed at the notebook. "Perhaps that will tell you?"

John nodded. "This is Lucas' notebook; it says he went here!"

Cora laughed and took John's offered arm as they walked across the street. "Really, Sherlock, you should give the domestic approach more credit."

Sherlock followed behind, muttering to himself and listening to John and Petrichor chatting away cheerfully. And just a little, he wished that he could do that as easily; talk and laugh with others. But he never had time to stop to chat…and perhaps one day that would make him wish he had.

They went inside the Lucky Cat, where the kind (but somewhat bothersome) old lady told John he should buy "his wife" a lucky cat. Sherlock looked exceedingly annoyed at this, and then realized that Cora had noticed.

"Second time today," she sighed in a low voice to him.

Sherlock nodded, and gave a small smile. "You seem very popular."

"That's a great comfort of course," she responded dryly.

Upon turning over a few of the items, sure enough they found the same cipher on a cup. It was a Chinese number fifteen.

Upon leaving the shop, Petrichor took a moment to look at the street-venders vegetables…and found a stalk of bok choy with a Chinese number one.

"Two men come back from China, apparently connected, and both head to the Lucky Cat Emporium. Why?" John mused.

"It's not what they saw, it's what they were carrying in those suitcases," Petrichor answered thoughtfully. Then she turned to Sherlock, who was jotting down the numbers.

"What if one of them got greedy? If one of them took something; didn't drop it off," she suggested.

"He wouldn't know which one took it, so he threatened them both!" Sherlock finished. "Excellent; and quite possible."

John finished his lunch, and Petrichor her tea (Sherlock having forgone any sustenance) and left the café. Sherlock then spotted something interesting: a copy of Yellow Pages at the door of Soo Lin Yoo's flat. Sherlock had no idea who it was, but Petrichor did.

"I am well-informed, you see," she smiled. "She's an appraiser for the Museum. Came from China about five years ago…could she be part of this?"

"Dangerous to jump to conclusions," Sherlock warned as they took a back alleyway towards her fire escape.

"I'm not going to be doing the jumping," she noted as Sherlock leapt into the air to grab the ladder.

He shrugged sardonically and heaved his lithe body over the railing, then ran up them until he reached her window.

"Sherlock!" John hissed after him, but Cora grabbed his hand and pointed to the left.

"This way, and we can reach the front door for him to let us in!" she suggested.

"Assuming he's feeling that charitable," John muttered, remembering the first time that had happened.

They ran around and John rang the doorbell. "Sherlock, let us in!" he called.

Silence.

"Not by the non-existent hair of his chinny-chin-chin," Petrichor murmured irritably.

"SHERLOCK!" they called together.

No answer.

"Oh, right, this is HOW IT WORKS!" John shouted, kicking the door. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and no one can compete with MY MASSIVE INTELLECT!"

Cora gave a frustrated smile…and she didn't notice the woman across the street snap a photo of John.

It was a full five minutes before the door suddenly opened and Sherlock came out, his face quite red. "The-the same person who killed Lucas and Van Coon has been here. We need to find Soo Lin," he said, his voice hoarse.

Petrichor's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she decided to save him from public embarrassment and walked beside him.

"We need to visit the Museum."


End file.
